


Know Thine

by Ladoga



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Chemical Torture, Gags, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Manhandling, Restraints, Sauron Being an Asshole, There's A Tag For That, Torture, chemical play, self-sacrificing behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 16:57:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladoga/pseuds/Ladoga
Summary: “Now how would you like to hear a secret, Russandol?”(Sauron informs Maitimo of some of his policies related to orcs. Maitimo acts on this information.)





	Know Thine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for (several!) prompts off a promptlist. [Prompt list (manhandling)](http://rp-memes-atyourservice.tumblr.com/post/175040667463/manhandling-symbol-starters). Prompt(s):
>
>> What about ☾ - wrestle/pin my muse to the ground and either an orc or maybe some random elf who hate Maedhros after the ice?
>> 
>> Can you write Maedhros and wrestle/pin with anyone?
>> 
>> Could I request ☾ - wrestle/pin my muse to the ground please?
> 
> Republishing here.
> 
> The setup for actually that part one turned into a whole scene (with Sauron, and chemical torture), so if you don’t want to read that bit see the summary in the endnotes and skip to the second part!

For all the language strife and dissension that had taken Elves both in Valinor and on Beleriand, at this point, Maitimo thinks, he must consider every language and form thereof he knows inadequate, because none of them have the words to sufficiently express the force with which he hates the Enemy.

“Now how would you like to hear a secret, Russandol?” The Maia, tone casual with that false-affableness he so likes, is not expecting a response from him. Knows he can’t give one, not with the gag stopping any sound he might try to utter, his body bound too thoroughly for him to even make some handsign.

The Maia reaches his own hand forward as he says it, another one of the brews he works with on his fingers. Yet again, those fingers draw in a line across the bare skin of his body. This one burns worse than the last one, raises blisters he can feel through himself even as he can’t look down to see. He can’t make more than a muffled sound, can’t flinch more than millimeters. Thauron smiles.

(There are many secrets he would like to hear. ‘What plans do you make against my people’. ‘What holds the Silmarils in Morgoth’s crown’. ‘How can I burn you and your master and your fortress to the ground’. He does not imagine any of these are what the Maia has in mind.)

“You may have noticed,” the Maia tells him conspiratorially. “That I am not the only one who has come to appreciate some of your so lovely qualities.” ‘Noticed’ is one word for it he supposes. For the way the orcs seize him when they see him unaccompanied, leave him in a bloody heap after.

“Now I might have thought,” another brew, another line. He shudders, bites into the gag. “That that fiery obstinate spirit of yours would move you to get some _resistance_ in there. Not against me, of course - you wouldn’t last a second. But do you really expect me to believe you can’t take an orc?”

He can, of course, take an orc. In good health even without weapons can take several; in the hardly good health of his current state would still bet on himself against one - he has the training, however hastily acquired. Peaceful elf or warrior, he was made to be valued as one, not as no more than a piece of a charging mass.

He does not see what purpose it would serve. The last battle that mattered he lost when the people who came to the parley with him were slaughtered, when he was taken here. If there is a chance of any victory, of escape - he will seize it with all the force he has. But what gain does it serve to take an orc when there are dozens, hundreds. When it only means more force they use in kind against him, more orcs who are there and ready when he, inevitably, is in no position to fight anymore. The Dark Foe is his Enemy; the orcs are only tools he crafted himself. He will fight to protect his people; he will not fight just to give his foe the satisfaction of it.

The Maia is watching his face, probably for something other than just reaction to his concoctions. He makes it blank as he can, stares back determined to give nothing. After a moment the Maia looks away; stirs another jar with a glass rod.

“But the secret, you see, is, they can’t be permitted to get away with it like that.” This time it’s the rod that touches him, some figure instead of a line. His jaw hurts from how he clenches it. “Orcs really can’t be allowed to learn they can get something for nothing - it spoils them. So if you determine to insist on giving it to them - well, I simply have to punish them.” He dips the rod again but drips off it this time; lets the drops run their way down across marks already raised. He smiles again.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Now that you _know_ the secret, why, you’ll just mention it to the next group that happens to find you! Which, naturally, I’m hardly going to prevent - not that you can’t be quite an irritant, but really your mouth is just too pretty to keep stopped up all the time.” A brush of fingers across Maitimo’s cheek leaves angry wheals behind. “But I do value my secrets, you see, and really can’t have them spread, so if I find out some orcs have gotten wind, I’ll simply have to cut out their tongues. Which does make them far less useful, I’m afraid, but I can usually find space in the schedule for another raid. Perhaps they’ll even bring me some more delightful elves!”

Another jar over a small fire starts letting out smoke. Seizing it he pours the two together, dips his fingers in the result.

“Well, I’m quite glad we had this little talk, I must say.” Another smile, and Maitimo knows how this ends, swears to himself that he will not close his eyes, he is not used enough to the pain yet (perhaps that’s not something that’s possible) but he will give the Enemy nothing. The skin of the inside of his thighs feels like it boils when Thauron’s touch ghosts pasts it. _Burn and die._ He tries to tell the Maia with his eyes. _In your own fire or someone else’s, burn out of the world and into the Void._

The fingers find their target efficiently.

—

It doesn’t take long for orcs to find him again. Three of them, this time, corner him in a hall, cut off his way in every direction (not that he’d have tried to run). And - if it was death that was to be meted out to them for this, perhaps it would be right to let it happen, less if only by a few to charge at the people he’s left behind. But he has borne more than enough punishments at Thauron’s hands to know that is not what that means. And they - they are not his enemies. Elves once, he knows from the stories. His cousins, however many generations removed now, and however the Enemy shaped them into this, he knows it was not by their will.

“Why if it isn’t Prettyface the Shiny Elf King,” the orc in front of him says, and reaches for him. He has the wall at his back. He ducks. He strikes out.

 

It ends of course as he knew it would, with him pinned to the ground, arm twisted behind his back, face ground into the dirty stone, legs forcibly spread. His shift is pushed up again; gnarled fingers (Elves once…) probe at his raw entrance.

There are not enough words, in any language of Aman or Endórë or Arda or Eä.

This time, at least, he can scream.

**Author's Note:**

> Summary of first part: Sauron, while torturing him, tells Maitimo that orcs who take him without him fighting back will be punished, because orcs can’t be allowed to have nice things without effort that way.


End file.
